Ryan held the last sheet between two fingers and stared at his mother as though thirty years of family history had just rearranged itself in front of him.
Margaret didn’t answer.
That frightened me more than another insult would have.
Until then, she had answered everything.
She had explained my pregnancy to other people before I could speak, corrected what food I ordered at family dinners, questioned my doctor appointments, and laughed whenever I said I needed space.Không có mô tả ảnh.
Margaret Whitmore could turn control into concern faster than anyone I had ever met.
Silence meant she had finally reached the part she couldn’t decorate.
Ryan looked down again.
“What is this?”
Caleb shifted beside the door.
I still couldn’t see the page from the bed, but I could see Ryan reading the same lines repeatedly, his thumb pressing harder against the paper.
